


a more beautiful vision, i have never seen

by adjourn



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Character Study, Erotophonophilia, Implied/Referenced Underage, M/M, Xin Zhao is fucked up, of sorts, with a splash of gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 06:14:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6412273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adjourn/pseuds/adjourn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Xin recalls his days in the Fleshing. Sometimes, he thinks them the only time he was truly alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a more beautiful vision, i have never seen

**Author's Note:**

> My understanding of League lore is shaky at best, so I apologize for any sketchy timeline issues and whatnot. Anyway, Zin Zow is my fave champ right now, so I figured I would give him some more dimension ... kinda. 
> 
> Idk i figure you don't spend a substantial amount of time as a gladiator (or in Noxus, for that matter) without developing some issues lol

 

 

 

It is his first match in the Rift. He’s acutely aware of the mechanics of the game, the seemingly arbitrary rules and the can-do’s. In fact, he’s spent weeks reviewing the layout of the terrain, the strategy behind each summoners’ goal, the various dangers posed by certain champions. It is no trivial responsibility to fight in the Rift; it is a matter of glory, of honoring Demacia and his king, his prince. Of proving his worth as seneschal.

And it is, as always, about the Fleshing. About finding a way to purge the lingering bloodlust within him, that inexorable pull that plagues his dreams, filling his fantasies with dripping, red release. He’s repressed his urges throughout the years, hoping that squashing the sweet memory of peeling skin, slippery insides slopping wet and wonderful in his hands, cracked skulls quivering beneath the might of his spear — hoping that the force of his forgetting will make it all go away. But whenever he’s called to battle, even in the lightest of skirmishes, he feels the compulsion to kill so strongly it takes all of his being to refrain from tearing enemies asunder, crushing bones beneath his feet.

It can’t go on this way. He needs a more consistent outlet, or he’s afraid that his careful composure will shatter; he doesn’t want to ruin the image of the perfect, collected officer Demacia expects, has put its faith in. He figures that, if he’s played steadily in the Fields, there will be enough death to satisfy. There has to be.

So, Xin tightens his grip around his spear and goes forward into the depths of the jungle.

  


.

  


The tender flesh of the first creature isn’t enough. And neither is the second, nor the third, nor the tenth. Killing the monsters is like scratching a venomous bite; it only amplifies the pain in the long-term. It isn’t until he ventures toward the upper pathway, fiery magicks resonating throughout every muscle in his body, and lunges upon Darius with the ferocity of a desperate, clawing animal, that Xin finds himself edging toward contentment. And only when he’s crushing Darius’ corpse into the earth does he feel a note of joy.

(Darius, the enemy of Demacia, stabbed to pieces. Xin can excuse his over-exuberance as intense resentment toward the Noxian, as patriotic vehemence.

Really, Xin hadn’t realized it was Darius until his spear was lodged in the man’s chest.)

“Thank you, sir,” says Teemo cheerfully, unfazed as he steps over the bloody smear that used to be a man.

Xin bows stiffly. “Of course. I’ll return should you need assistance.” And then he steps quickly into the river, away from the light of the tower.

He kills more beasts in the jungle, and later takes down a dragon on his own. He kills Lux twice, Kalista three times and Jax once — all perfunctory, efficient, clinical.

He does not fight Darius again.

  


.

  


“...honored Demacia today with his performance in the Rift. May justice continue to ride with him in future battles, so triumph may follow. Glory, to our newest champion!” Jarvan IV declares, raising his glass in toast to Xin. The table of officers and nobles follow suit; the king, otherwise occupied, is conspicuously absent. But Xin does not need, nor deserve, nor want the king’s recognition.

What he wants is to clean the lingering blood out from underneath his fingernails with his tongue.

  


.

  


Later that night, in his private chambers, Xin is scrubbing himself clean. Since he hadn’t died once in the match, his body hasn’t renewed; he’s left with the bloodstained palms, the seeping red on his skin. Of course, he took a thorough wash before attending the celebratory dinner, but he can still feel traces of his victims’ life force on him. He shudders as he rubs his cheekbone, remembering the shower of Darius’ blood on his face.

A knock at the door. Jarvan steps in, though Xin hadn’t said a word; it’s to be expected. The prince knocks to announce his presence rather than ask permission, which Xin doesn’t mind. It’s a habit suited to royalty.

“You really did perform well today,” Jarvan remarks, a smile tugging at his lips. He looks admiringly at the set of Xin’s broad shoulders, glistening with water, the definition of his back. Even after all these years, Jarvan’s attraction to him is somewhat bemusing; Xin won’t deny that he’s a decently handsome man, but he’s so old, so outwardly boring and stiff compared to the prince.

“Thank you, my liege,” Xin says. Jarvan says nothing at his formal tone. The prince has stopped bothering to get Xin to call him by his first name — the warrior maintains a strict code of propriety for everyone’s good. Rules restrain him. Rules help.

“I do have one question, though,” Jarvan says. “Why did you stop pursuing Darius?”

Xin had hoped it wouldn’t be so obvious. But it’s too late now, and he won’t lie to his prince, at least not overtly. So he decides upon a variation of the truth. “I was ashamed by the brutality of my first kill. I felt such cruelty was a blight upon the honor of Demacia, and did not want to repeat it by allowing my hatred of the Noxian to overtake me.”

Jarvan hums consideringly. He steps over to Xin, who’s still in the bath, and bends down until they’re face to face.

“Next time, don’t hold back.” Jarvan grins, sharklike, and rests his hand at the side of Xin’s neck, right at his jugular, right where Darius’ brains had splattered, oozing down to his collarbone. Xin trembles; Jarvan pulls him closer and kisses him.

Xin is already hard.

  


.

  


Rules do help, normally. He lives by a stringent moral and social code, conforming to etiquette at all times and avoiding all unethical activity: lying, stealing, the works. His rules keep him in check, allow him to better cage whatever trawling monstrosity lies within.

But he hates the rules of the League. He _hates_ them.

The orderly layout of the arena, the mindless minions, the protective towers, the objectives — they grate on him immensely. The very nature of the game, how ingrained structure and stiffness is into it, makes him crave the wild thrill of the Fleshing, the chaos. No tower dive can compare to the raw bliss of ripping apart eight men with his bare hands, and then slaughtering 20 more with a makeshift bone spear. No teamfight, no pentakill can get his heart racing, his blood pumping like beating a man to death with another man’s skull, like feeling the slickness of fresh intestines between his fingers, on his thighs. Each match in the Fields makes him crave the Fleshing more and more; or, at least, the ferocious battles that occurred there. And each kill he gets in the League, though bringing him increasing recognition throughout the Institute and praise from Jarvan, only makes him more miserable. Vividly aware that every move he makes is being monitored and broadcast to an audience, he has to act with terrible restraint. He hasn’t committed a truly satisfying murder since Darius, who now regards at him carefully, almost knowingly, whenever they face off. Darius and Teemo have witnessed a side of him unbeknownst to others, and he plans to keep it to just the two of them. It pains him, to traverse the Fields under the constant pressure of rules and order, and he wants out. He wants back.

It used to be that Xin blocked out all memory of the Fleshing. But being back in an arena, even one so radically different, forces him to recall those long-ago days.

Sometimes, he thinks them the only time he was truly alive.

  


.

  


“Today was your 30th match,” Jarvan says, gently running his fingers through Xin’s hair. “We’re all very impressed.”

“I live to honor your legacy,” Xin demures. He doesn’t enjoying discussing the Fields, not while with Jarvan. It’s bad enough that his thoughts are corrupted by the grotesque during their acts of intimacy; he’d rather not taint their conversations. To distract the prince, he shifts closer to Jarvan, so that Xin’s lips can trail delicate kisses down the sculpted chest, so that he can press his mouth to the angles of Jarvan’s hips, the soft skin of his thighs.

“You must think me still a young boy,” Jarvan says, but with a few slow strokes and caresses of Xin’s tongue, the prince is more than half-hard.

(He is, in many ways, a young boy. Though not the same boy who had approached Xin years ago, wide-eyed and hopeful and uncertain, at the tail end of his teenage years, pressing a shy kiss to the seneschal’s cheek.)

Xin’s distraction works. There is no more talk of the Rift, of summoners and deaths. He is glad. It helps that he enjoys performing oral, enough that he doesn’t have to think about anything else to feel aroused. The weight of Jarvan’s cock on his tongue, the musky taste and smell of him, the breathless noises and whimpers Jarvan makes when Xin takes him deeper into this throat — it’s enough.

Of course, the darker thoughts come unbidden. And, imagining Jarvan’s whimpers as cries of pain when Xin’s hands wrap around his neck, thumbs pressing into the meat of his windpipe, the healthy, bronze skin turning white with peril, eyes bulging, Xin moans helplessly around Jarvan’s cock.

He can’t stop the images, can’t stop himself. Why? Why, whywhy _why—_

  


.

  


A young boy, working in the fields. The sun burns overhead, white-hot rays drying his lips. Sweat trickles down his neck, his shirt sticks uncomfortably to his back. In eight hours, he will be finished with his work outside and return to his family’s small shack to tend to household chores, to cook a meager dinner. At nightfall, he will watch the moon, wondering why its light does not burn. He will sleep until dawn wakes him. And — repeat.

One day, the cycle is disrupted. His father, returning from the city at last, brings home an empty cart.

Where is the trade, his mother asks.

His father is silent.

Were you attacked? Was it bandits? his mother fusses. Are you hurt?

No, his father says wearily. I am sorry. I used the money for my old habits. I am sorry.

His mother wails and despairs, but she does not insult his father, nor blame him. He is a man with a temper. She is afraid of him.

The boy is, too. But he doesn’t want to be.

How can you do this? Do you not care for your family? Do you not realize the suffering you cause us? he demands.

Don’t speak to me like that, his father says.

Sharp words are exchanged. The anger wells. His father strikes him, knocks him to the ground. He hits the table on the way down, and dinner shatters on the floor. Two swift kicks to his ribs. Another to his stomach. Kneels down. A hard punch to his jaw. His mother is crying, still, but she doesn’t do anything. She never does.

The boy is afraid, but he doesn’t want to be. He grabs a plate shard and stabs his father in the neck.

And as the blood sprays across his face, hot and slippery, something indescribable awakens inside him.

He wants it. He wants more.

The next day, the boy flees, leaving behind two rotting, mutilated corpses. But perhaps he is no longer a boy anymore. He is a murderer, an animal, a criminal.

He is Viscero.

  


.

  


You see, he was not born in the Fleshing. He only flourished there.

  


.

  


It is his 44th match in the Fields. For the first time on his own, he faces down Malzahar, the Prophet, the Void. They stand in the murky waters of the channel, watching each other.

Xin beckons with his spear. “Come, champion. We shall see who the gods stand by.”

Of course, in the fields, there are no gods — only summoners.

“The Void calls you, Xin Zhao,” Malzahar says. “Deeper than the world is led to believe. It sings to you. Open up your soul; allow It in, and you will be complete.”

“Enough talk,” Xin says coldly. He charges.

His flurry of blows is endless, unerring. Yet Malzahar is surprisingly agile, and he weaves around Xin’s spear with the fluidity of a shadow. The air around them is cool but oppressive, and Xin feels a chill creeping into his bones, an expanding sense of wrongness the longer they fight. He is on edge, mind tormented by worries of how much of Malzahar’s speech people may have heard, what conclusions they may have drawn — distracted by this bout of anxiety, Xin slips up.

And the world stops.

  


.

  


The sky is clear and bluer than ever, and the trees dance joyfully in the springtime breeze. Sunlight filters in through the translucent curtains, casting the room in a warm glow, and Xin blinks awake. Jarvan is pressed to his front, Xin’s arms wrapped around his waist, and the heat of him, the steady thump of his heart, the comforting scent of his body wash, makes contentment unfurl slow and wonderful in his belly. He kisses the back of the prince’s neck and smiles. He’s never felt more tranquil than laying there with his lover, knowing happiness is gently sleeping under the protective bracket of his touch.

He loves Jarvan. He loves him with everything he has, with all  h is  h  e  a  r  t —

  


.

  


Xin is on his knees, gasping for breath. He claws desperately at his chestplate, fingers clumsy and fumbling as he takes the armor off. There’s a hole inside him, an overwhelming agony that he’s never experienced before, and he needs it to stop.

“The visions are different for everyone, but that was by far the strangest I’ve ever seen,” Malzahar says. “Most see images of grotesque horror: the brutal murder of a loved one, a slaughtered family, a genocide. Never … happiness.”

Xin tears open his shirt. There is no wound, no blood. But it still hurts.

“Are you afraid of happiness, Xin Zhao?”

“I fear nothing,” Xin spits, right before Malzahar takes his head off.

  


.

  


“You seem shaken.” Jarvan brushes the errant strands of hair out of Xin’s face. His eyes are filled with unbridled affection, such a far cry from the hollow gaze he wore after his rescue from Noxus. The prince has slain his demons, found the burst of humanity within himself. He’s a better person now. The picture of righteousness.

Xin would be jealous if he was capable of it.

“I am fine,” Xin says. “There is no need to worry, my liege.”

Jarvan’s brow creases unhappily. “Malzahar is a terrible enemy to face alone. There is no shame in fearing the encounter. His visions,” Jarvan pauses in remembrance, “are no trivial matter.”

Xin can guess what Jarvan sees in the Void. He is, perhaps, glad that he did not see the same thing. He’d never want be in his right mind again.

“Truly, I am fine. I saw nothing that I have not dreamed before.”

Jarvan looks at him a touch sadly. It amazes Xin, the wealth of emotion the prince is capable of. It concerns him, too; no matter the morality Demacia stands for, it is a ruthless nation that requires a ruthless ruler. It is best that Jarvan quash whatever compassion is left within him, particularly if that compassion is reserved for Xin.

“The Fleshing?” Jarvan says carefully.

“No, my liege.” Xin breaks eye contact. “I saw you.”

Jarvan, drawing the wrong conclusions, is touched. He draws Xin in and holds him, pressing an insistent kiss to his shoulder. “You’re here with me. You’ll always be by my side — and I, yours.”

Xin thinks that maybe such is true. Maybe he will continue serving the Lightshield family for the rest of his life as the honorable seneschal, maybe he will bring glory to Demacia in the Fields of Justice, maybe he will stay with Jarvan, even if it isn’t in a romantic capacity. Maybe he will spend the next decades crushing down the urges and getting off to the idea of Jarvan’s mangled body as they make love. Maybe he’ll have the strength to lock it all away.

  


.

  
  
Or maybe he won’t.


End file.
